I'm going to go ahead and publish this.  Not because it has any particular literary value but because I've spent too much time on it to stick it next to my other hundred drafts that don't see the light of day.  It's screen vomit really.  If you actually read it don't come crying to me that you want those 4 minutes of your life back.  No returns here, not even for store credit.

I'm a child of the 70's really.  I was born in '66 so I don't really know anything about the 60's.  My daughter has asked me what "Hippies" were like.  I tell her they were like Hipsters but with less money.  The news was always on at my house so my earliest memories of TV are of Vietnam, social unrest and Watergate.  I remember the 1976 presidential campaign pretty clearly.  "Emergency", Brady Bunch – just all of that stuff.  It's a blast for me to go to a "Retro" 70's party – everyone is all Mod and I'm in a Stones shirt.  Music has been an important influence in my life from early on.  I learned to play the piano and the viola.  Chicks dug guitar players but I was never any good at it although I did give it the college try.  Switched to bass before just giving the whole thing up.  I played the viola for about 10 years and enjoyed playing classical music but never tried my hand at writing music. 

In the 80's I became (and still am) a metal head.  You should see my music library.  Strauss to Slayer.  During all of this I was never really close to the creative process.  I never wrote any music, visual arts were simply out of the question and I didn't do any writing.  I saw lots of concerts and read a lot of books but never created my own.  As a result, I didn't ever develop an appreciation of the creative process.

Fast forward some years and I've been writing this blog for 7 years!  However, I still struggle to articulate, when asked, what that is like?  How do you write?  I don't know, I just write.  I don't regard what I do as particularly creative – most of it is stuff  about the City and feels like I'm reporting.  The other stuff – the stories and whatnot – I could never put an adequate label on it until I saw a video for the Foo Fighters.  The Foo Fighters are led by a guy named Dave Grohl.  Dave was the drummer in Nirvana when Kurt killed himself.  He wandered around a bit and finally recorded what would become the Foo Fighters debut album – with himself being the only official band member.  The Foos have a song called "Everlong" that is about, well, whatever the hell it's about, but it is incredibly popular.  I was watching a video of the Foo Fighters playing in Wembley stadium and Dave goes out on this looong, thin part of the stage that goes right out into the middle of the audience.  He stops, takes a drink, turns his guitar up and starts playing.

When I saw Dave, in that sea of people, close his eyes and start playing Everlong – all by his lonesome – it really had an impact on me.  It crystalized my understanding of the process and the results.  

The why we do these kinds of things.  

Here's a song this guy wrote in about 45 minutes.  On someone else's floor and he has the courage to drag it out in front of 50,000 of his closest friends and play his song.  It describes for me the creative process.  I'm not comparing whatever talent I may or may not posess to Dave Grohl.  However, it occurs to me that, subject to the limits of my skill, the process is the same.  The final product is somewhat different in effect, popularity and profitability but either way it is a process.  Dave is an artist.  I'm a mechanic turning a wrench.

So what's it like to write, to do this thing?  Sometimes it's just reporting.  We don't have a local paper and I feel like I owe it to folks to take some kind of stab at articulating the Council proceedings.  Sometimes, as in posts like this, I get to play a little.  I spend my time trying to barf some words onto the screen that articulate an idea or clarify the opaque.  Maybe tell a bit of a story.  Those posts are the hardest.  For these posts to be any good at all I've got to pull the curtain back a little bit.  Share just a little bit of what's inside.  Write something that is intimate and put it out there for all to see.  People tell me that I'm a pretty fair writer.  I don't know.  Writing for me isn't like running through fire or gnawing off my own leg – the words usually flow pretty easily but look at the crap I write! 

Those that enjoy any level of succes at the terminus of their process are those that aren't afraid to show that crazy nocturnal idea the cold light of day – to hold that germ of an idea up for all to see and celebrate.  The definition of success is relative: might be a handful of tolerant neighbors or an international music icon but that willingness to share is the goal line and the razor.

It's winter time again.  Blech.  Short, dim days.  Cold rain.  Dreary surrounds.  Everyone is a crab apple.  Well, except for me.  I'm a ray of sunshine.  So, there I was about two weeks ago sacking around the house and decided that I needed to put forth a token exercising effort.  I was starting to feel blah – ey in a big way.  So much so that it reminded me of the time 7 years ago when I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes.  Back then I weighed almost 300 pounds.  It was a life-changing event for me.  I lost 70 pounds and started exercising regularly.  I've managed to keep the blood sugar demon under wraps with just exercise and diet for 7 long years.

Alas!  I fell off the train.  I hadn't checked my blood sugar in quite a while so I did and it was high.  I decided it was time for a run and to get control of the diet.  Too much eating and drinking.  I had been running intermittently but it was nowhere near enough to offset the amount of eating I was doing.  I wasn't putting on weight, just eating the wrong stuff.  So off into the twilight I went on my normal 2.5 mile route.  The route winds in and around Old Town – a good mix of hills and flats.  

I had my headphones on and was jogging along in a groove – up Moseby street, approaching Grant.  It was night and there was a fair amount of traffic so I decided that, instead of going all the way to the corner and turning onto the sidewalk, I would cut through the parking lot of a building on the corner.  Sometimes it is easier if the cars don't even see you.  I veered right through the parking lot and was about halfway through it when half my foot came down on terra firma and the other half on thin air – above a pot hole.  My ankle rolled outward and I went down like a ton of bricks.

When it happened I remember thinking that my leg bones were coming through the ligaments on the outside of my ankle.  I lay on the pavement (in the freezing cold) for about 5 minutes trying to sort it all out.  I was in a lot of pain and wasn't sure I could walk.  I rolled (yes, rolled.  I looked like a giant neon log) through the parking lot to pick up all of my belongings that went flying out of my hand and pockets when I crashed and sat on the curb for a couple of minutes.  I could tell the thing was already swelling but I tested it out and it didn't hurt to stand on it at all.  There was, of course, no stability in the joint but I could walk.  I shuffled home…

The next morning I was still in considerable pain and determined to set out for the ER.  Sarah suggested Patient First.  I resisted, "that's a doc in a box and it's for ding-dongs."  She politely offered to drive me there or nowhere.  I went to Patient First.  I will admit that I was wrong about PF.  It was quick, efficient and well organized.  X-Ray and exam in about 70 minutes.  I would have been in the ER for half a day or more.  However, I really didn't receive too much happy news.  While my ankle wasn't broken the sprain was severe enough we had a discussion about casting it.  In the end they put a brace on it and sent me off with directions to see an ortho to get further evaluation.  The Dr. also noted that my blood pressure was high and it should be checked by my family doc.

I really didn't want to do that.  I knew what I was going to hear: less food, medication (blech!), maybe some weight loss and more exercise.  I had no choice in the matter if I wanted to live and so I went.  When my doctor walked into the room I did what everyone else does: throw myself on the mercy of the court.  She let me off easy on the lecture side and sent me off to the lie detector: blood work.  

By way of reference, during my initial experience with Diabetes, I got my A1C (a long term measure of blood sugar) down below 5.  Close to 5 is healthy.  When I went back in to get my results my Doctor laid it out for me: my A1C was nearly 10!  Humans are capable of grand amounts of self-delusion but I was pretty pragmatic about it.  There wasn't a mystery as to how this happened.  Even though I do exercise a bit, I'm also guilty of counting on that exercise to soak up the sins on the intake side.  That had worked for a long time but time moves ever onward and it wasn't working anymore.

So I'm back on the wagon but it's a tough row to hoe.  My blood sugar is coming down nicely – it is about half where it was – but I can't workout at all due to my ankle.  I'm riding the trainer a bit but even that is pretty limited as any amount of resistance makes it hurt.  I'll get there from here but I'm not thinking it is going to be a happy winter.  Hopefully I can get the ankle settled down and get back on the bike.  The bike is therapy and it'll help.  My goal is to lose an additional 30 pounds.  I'm currently at about 220 – which is my college weight and at 190 I'll be around my High School weight!